


Buried Alive

by Agib, starsandsupernovae



Series: Whumptober 2020 [5]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Branding, Buried Alive, Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt Spencer Reid, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Protective Derek Morgan, Whump, Worried Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:47:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26809870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agib/pseuds/Agib, https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandsupernovae/pseuds/starsandsupernovae
Summary: A Revelations AU...
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid & The BAU Team
Series: Whumptober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1945771
Comments: 15
Kudos: 258
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Buried Alive

**Author's Note:**

> <3 Many thanks to Soph, my amazing beta, love you <3
> 
> <3 for co-writer, Dani, her Ao3 is: [Starsandsupernovae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandsupernovae)  
> And her gorgeous tumblr: [@reid-and-writing](https://reid-and-writing.tumblr.com/)

“Is that a confession?” Hankel asks. From where he sat, slumped over in his chair, Spencer can’t see him. He can only hear him as he leers. 

  
  


“I confess.” He had done wrong by his mother. Hankel wasn’t wrong. Or Raphael, as the man’s behaviour suggested.

  
  


“You know your Bible. Exodus 21:17.”

  
  


Spencer skimmed through Exodus, peeling it apart in his mind for information.

  
  


“And he that curseth his father or mother…” He didn’t want to finish this sentence. It would seal his fate. 

  
  


Either way, not knowing the Bible made him a sinner, whether it condemns him or not. “...Shall surely be put to death. _”_

_“Grab a shovel.”_

Raphael’s words are a short, barked command. There’s no judgement behind it, judgement has already passed. Now, there’s nothing but a terrible silence as he’s led outside to the cemetery, to painstakingly dig what he hopes isn’t another grave.

  
  


Any weight on his foot is excruciating. Hankel has to drag him upwards off the floor when he stumbles across the gravel and sticks again and again.

  
  


At least he knows for certain that he’s being kept in a cemetery. The moonlight bounces off the headstones, glints off Hankel’s knife which swings from his pocket on every step. The light hurts his eyes, which have adjusted over the forty-eight hour stay within a dim shed. 

  
  


When they come upon a clearing, Spencer swallows thickly. There’s a patch of dry dirt in the center of it all, and Hankel turns to him expectantly, dropping the shovel against the soft earth.

  
  


“Dig,” he orders. He sounds like a dictator, as though he truly believes he is God, higher than some pitiful archangel. At least, the way he sounds when he looks from the shovel to Spencer, who was limping closer.

  
  


At said order, he drops once again to his knees, close enough to the floor that he smells the wet dirt and feels the texture of the leaves beneath his socked and one bare foot.

  
  


Spencer begins digging, slowly, painstakingly. He doesn’t have any choice. He tries to listen closely to the sounds of the cemetery at night, searching desperately for the sound of heavy boots, for a shift in the shadows that would signify his rescue. Too aware of his time running out. 

  
  


“I ought to bury you alive in there, give you time to think about what you’ve done,” Raphael threatens when he’s only partway through. Spencer knows he had done wrong for his mother, as much as he tries to tell himself it was necessary.

  
  


“I know what I’ve done.” He knows it all too well, can never forget it. 

  
  


_“Don’t talk back to me,”_ Raphael snaps. Raphael spins his knife between his fingers as he stands over him, commanding him. “Dig.”

  
  


His wrists are sore from the handcuffs, foot almost blinding with pain, even resting gently against the earth. His fingers tremble with every movement and his muscles feel stiff and bunched up. A frayed pile of nerves. He suspects before his heart stopped, he had seized on the floor of the cabin.

  
  


“What are you stopping for?!” Raphael barks as soon as he takes a moment. 

  
  


He swears he heard a twig snapping. This could be the team. At this point it could be anybody and he’d be grateful, but he prays for Derek. For his warm embraces, and the concern that shines in his eyes during any case that even comes close to this level of danger.

  
  


“Dig faster!”

  
  


He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep going. Each time he brings the shovel down, he’s unsure if he’ll lift it again. In the end, he lifts it for Derek. When he closes his eyes, trying to scrape down inside himself for a last ounce of strength, for just a bit more, he sees him. He needs to keep going for him. Derek has always been strong for Spencer and now it’s his turn. 

  
  


The bottom line seems to be that Spencer would do almost anything for Derek, because he knows it goes both ways, no matter what. That was the thing about sharing a job with this much constant peril. You learn to do everything you can to protect and support your loved ones.

  
  


God, he hopes he has the chance to do more for Derek. He doesn’t want this to be the last act of loyalty he can perform.

  
  


But it’s so _much_. And his muscles are screaming at him, his body forcing the truth he doesn’t want to face from his throat.

  
  


“I’m not strong enough.” 

  
  


There’s nothing left. 

  
  


He closes his eyes, and this time, there’s only darkness, and it’s all he can do to open them again. He reaches down inside himself for some form of strength, looks desperately, for anything. But he’s done. 

  
  


He hears movement from his side and peels his eyes open until he’s watching, detached, as Raphael moves toward him, flames of anger in his eyes.

  
  


“You’re all weak!”

  
  


‘All,’ he wonders what that means. Men that Hankel has had around his thumb? Addicts? Victims? Sinners? So far he ticks all these boxes, which only forces his heart to sink further.

  
  


_What was Derek going to think of him like this?_

  
  


Spencer drops the shovel, and it falls with a soft thud onto the disrupted dirt. He’s swaying slightly, blood rushing in his ears, and so when Raphael comes up behind him, truly like an avenging angel, and shoves him into the grave, he tumbles in easily.

  
  


His ribs scream at the force of his own body weight, his bad foot twisting in the dirt as he shoves himself to his elbows. His breaths pick up, panic setting in amongst the walls of earth around him.

  
  


He barely registers the movement before the first shower of dirt is shoveled in around him, falling onto his legs, tumbling over his body. A rush of adrenaline pushes itself through his veins too late as he struggles to stand, but he can’t anymore, his legs won’t support his weight. He’s too weak. 

  
  


“Don’t! Don’t -” Yelling, it seems, was a horrible idea. Dirt sticks to the wetness of his lips and the still cakey blood smeared across his temple like a halo.

  
  


He coughs raggedly, wiping at his face like a disgruntled animal. He tries to look upward, to catch his captor’s eyes and plead silently the way he always does when he wants Derek to slip a few of his files into his own pile so they can leave for home sooner in the evening.

  
  


His hands scrabble at the dirt walls, it isn’t deep, he couldn’t dig any deeper. If he could only claw his way up, climb out-- the shovel hits hands like a nail driving through his hand, pinning him to a wooden cross.

  
  


He yelps, snatching his hand away, falling back, hard onto the dirt. The fall knocks the air out of him and he struggles to regain his breath as the dirt keeps coming, he can’t see it anymore, but he can feel it. It must be landing on his chest, it’s so heavy there, so hard to breathe. 

  
  


He thinks it hasn’t been long since he first hit the floor, so why does he feel the weight of a thousand coffins pressing against his lungs.

  
  


He wants to gasp for air, but there’s more and more dirt in his mouth every time he tries. It tastes of his failure to endure. 

  
  


He tries to open his eyes, but there’s only the darkness of the earth, filling his eyes, his nose and mouth, muffling all sound. There’s nothing but darkness now, surrounding him, and he doesn’t know how to fight it anymore. 

  
  


He can’t end this way. Buried alive by a delusional unsub in an abandoned cemetery. He thinks of the picture Derek will have them use on the wall of fallen agents. 

  
  


He thinks of Penelope and all the origami animals he will no longer be able to fold for her on bad days. 

  
  


Of JJ, and the guilt she’ll shoulder, the blame she will impart on herself for his death. 

  
  


He blames himself for never being able to reach out to Elle, to apologise for the circumstances of her departure. 

  
  


And Emily, who won’t have someone in her corner who understands the nerves of being fresh to the team as she adjusts to the new job.

  
  


For Hotch, who will blame himself for not reaching him in time, for not saving his youngest agent from the terrors of the field. 

  
  


For never finishing the last chess match with Gideon.

  
  


And Derek, _again_. Poor, sweet Derek who’ll never quite adjust to being without him. Or the empty reading room that will stay quiet and abandoned within their own home. Clooney, who won’t have anyone willing to feed him steak scraps when Derek isn’t looking.

  
  


He wonders if it’ll be Derek who finds him. Who has to dig up what must be a mountain of dirt above him now, only to find his body. If he’ll know that Spencer loved him until the end, that he had tried to be strong for him. If he’ll realize that Spencer was too weak. 

  
  


He tries to think of which would be the worst finding him like this - suffocated and buried alive - and to be too late, or never finding him at all. Having their teammate’s body decayed beneath layers of rotting soil for the rest of their lives, unknown and alone.

  
  


Would Derek give up? How long would he look for him? And that’s when Spencer knows that he needs to be found. Or Derek would never stop. 

  
  


Derek is the kind to never move on without permission or closure. 

  
  


At this point Spencer only hopes that someone else finds him first. That Derek can find some peace. He tries to take one more breath, and he can feel it, when his lungs fill with the darkness. 

  
  


His eyes feel sunken as the black swallows him whole, the sensation of muddy crumbs filling his esophagus.

  
  


\----

  
  


The cabin looks more like a shack in person. It looks cold and abandoned, no light on, hardly any footprints amidst the muddied layer of leaves that coat the ground.

  
  


Hotch is at his side, readying the entire team for an infiltration that might just be the most important in their careers.

  
  


Spencer’s been missing almost exactly forty-eight hours at this point. He died on camera. He’s been beaten, tortured, quite potentially setback massively from the self-assured, confident agent Derek has helped him grow into.

  
  


_When_ they find him, he reminds himself.

  
  


Because they will. There’s no other option. They _have_ to. 

  
  


He wouldn’t cope if they didn’t get there in time. It would destroy the team, they’d fall apart entirely. 

  
  


Hotch exchanges a hand signal and he raises his leg and gun, prepped and ready. 

  
  


“Go!”

  
  


_So stealth was out of the question,_ he thinks. If Spencer got hurt as a consequence he was going to lose it. 

  
  


The door caved in beneath the weight of his foot and Hotch was inside with his gun raised before it had a chance to bounce off the wall. 

  
  


Derek is second in, eyes scanning the room for Spencer than for their unsub. He _needs_ him to be okay. 

  
  


The first thing they all notice is the _smell_. 

  
  


It’s like being hit with a semi that’s been dragged from the depths of the ocean, filled with whale carcass and dead fish.

  
  


In the far back corner there’s an iron skillet next to the fire which is smoking, recently put out. In the skillet is the remains of bloodied seafood, smeared across the iron and almost undulating with the decrepit smell. 

  
  


Hotch clears the final room, which is really just a smaller section of the main room. It’s an open space. Spencer would have been able to see Hankel from anywhere within the shed. 

  
  


Emily covers her nose, complaining about the smell. All Derek can think about is how long Spencer must’ve had to deal with it. 

  
  


_Keeps the sins away_. 

  
  


There’s a tripod with a camera that fits the description of the missing one from the tech store that reported a break in after Hankel fled his home with Spence in tow. 

  
  


Derek thinks of the blinking red light, of the footage quality, just good enough to capture the terror splashed across his lover’s face. He thinks of the wetness caught by the light in his eyes as he was forced to pick someone to die, once for innocent citizens and once for his own team of seven. 

  
  


He thinks of Spencer willing to die for his team. _Pick me_ , he’d said. _Shoot me._

  
  


In the centre of it all is a chair. It’s surrounded by scuff marks and dried blood. There’s a belt and used handcuffs sat plainly in the middle of the seat. 

  
  


Derek feels sick. 

  
  


Spencer’s wrists will be bruised. He doesn’t know where the dried blood came from but he hopes it wasn’t his head wound. If he’s severely concussed it will ruin the healthy sleeping pattern they’d both worked so hard to create for him.

  
  


All Derek can think to do is to _save Spencer_ . To _find_ him, at least. 

He was alone with a delusional unsub with a tendency of extreme violence. He had been alone for forty-eight hours. 

  
  


He was determined. There was no way in hell he would settle for Spencer being lost. He wouldn’t stop looking until he found him, even if it took years which he prayed it would not. 

  
  


“We’ll search the property,” Hotch ordered. He waves them out in pairs, most with a local cop as they hold the flashlights. 

  
  


Derek is left with Hotch. The man only pauses a minute to look at him comfortingly. “We’ll find him,” he promises. 

  
  


“I know we will,” he says confidently. “We have to.”

  
  


\----

  
  


It feels like hours they've been searching, and although the cliche tastes wrong in Derek’s mouth, he knows it’s only been a quarter of an hour at most.

  
  


Fifteen more minutes atop the forty-eight hours Spencer’s been gone.

  
  


It doesn’t seem like much, but anything could be happening to him, _could have_ happened to him already.

  
  


“Cleared right fields,” JJ says into the comm line. 

  
  


He bites back a curse and exchanges a worried glance with Hotch. There’s been no sign of Hankel, let alone their teammate. 

  
  


“I don’t know where they’d b -”

  
  


“Don’t,” Hotch interrupts. “We’ll find him. We have down the hill to clear and the entire backside of the cabin. He’s here.”

  
  


Part of Hotch’s job is to keep the team functional, and Derek is all too aware of how quickly they’d all fall apart if Reid was nowhere to be found. He struggles to find belief in his superior’s words of comfort. 

  
  


“Careful,” he murmurs instead as they lower themselves down the bank. It’s a dead end- the ground slopes back out and meets easily with the other cleared areas. If Spencer was here, there would be a slim shadow against the moonlight to match his gangly frame. 

  
  


Instead there’s nothing but upturned dirt and raw gravestones to show for the effort. 

  
  


Derek rubs the bridge of his nose and groans in unease.

  
  


There are several headstones collected among the clearing and one of the graves is freshly turned, dark brown clumps strewed across the leaves.

  
  


“Hotch,” he starts. 

  
  


“Take that for prints,” Hotch interrupts. He’s gesturing to a shovel laying on the ground beside the fresh grave. The handle is covered in dirt and fingerprints are visible already. 

  
  


“No, Hotch -”

  
  


He steps forward, observing the state of the shallow grave. The dirt is stacked. Almost like a grave was dug and there was too much dirt to cover whatever was placed inside the hole.

  
  


There's something Derek can’t make out amongst the darkness of the mud, but it’s dark navy and hardly obvious in the dim moonlight.

  
  


“What the hell is -”

  
  


He tugs at the object and it pulls taught, the back half smeared with dirt. He tugs at it experimentally, swearing quietly when something larger begins to unearth itself.

  
  


He hits a patch of light coming down from between the trees and his heart stutters.

  
  


Navy blue with horizontal ivory stripes.

  
  


The single sock Spencer matches with his red and orange dotted pair.

  
  


Derek is yelling before his brain has a chance to register it's meaning, his hands clawing at the dirt. 

  
  


“Hotch, help me, man!”

  
  


Mud collects beneath his fingernails and he _knows_ Spencer has always hated the sensation of grime beneath his nails. The irony doesn’t register in the moment, he’s too caught up unearthing more and more limbs.

  
  


He moves up Spencer's body, trying desperately to find his face, to let him breathe. He wasn't too late, he couldn't be too late. 

  
  


At last his fingers feel him through the dirt, Spencer's unruly curls and he renews his efforts, while some part of his mind notices Hotch and the recently arrived Emily helping him. They assist as he pulls Spencer's limp body from the ground, roots clinging like some sick, twisted metaphor for death’s clutches.

  
  


It looks wrong, he's too still. Spencer is always moving, whether it's that gangly run, or just toying with a pen, he's never learned to be still. But now, for once there's nothing. 

  
  


He’s never seen him in a worse state. Half of his temple is stained in thick, congealed blood, his clothing a mess, torn in places and unbuttoned. He’s always been so put-together, it was a habit. Now he looked like he’d been to hell and back in one trip.

  
  


Forty-eight hours. That’s all it took.

  
  


He gently slides the hand resting beneath Spencer’s back upward, arching his body so Derek could listen for a heartbeat as Hotch leaned in to check for a pulse.

  
  


“Nothing,” Hotch says hurriedly. “Morgan?”

  
  


“He’s still warm - he’s fine,” Derek snaps. He’s well aware of his tone, of how quickly reprimand would come if Spencer wasn’t… like _this_.

  
  


Training is mandated every four months for a field agent, so CPR is common knowledge for all three of them at this point. Hotch barely has to prompt him before he’s gently laying Spencer down amongst the dirt and opening his airway.

  
  


Not a second later and he’s having to tilt him to his side and clear his mouth of mud.

  
  


_God, how many pathogens Spencer would be complaining about if he were conscious right now_.

  
  


Derek lays him back down and keeps working, pumping Spencer's chest for him, trying to breathe life back into his lungs. 

  
  


“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty -”

  
  


“Now two rescue breaths.”

  
  


“I _know_.”

  
  


After six rescue breaths total, Derek starts doubting himself. If he’s fast enough, if he’s keeping in time, exerting enough pressure, whether someone _else_ should be doing this.

  
  


Spencer would know exactly what he should be doing. He would be able to tell him how to do better. This time, the irony isn’t lost on Derek.

  
  


His spiraling thoughts are interrupted by Spencer’s small, jerky movement.

  
  


His finger twitches and his chest arches upwards, hands reaching out to shove Derek away through a cough and a gasp.

  
  


“... - op! St - op. Stop, please.”

  
  


His voice is croaky and broken from disuse.

  
  


"Hurts. Stop,” he pleads. His eyes are caked in dirt and Derek isn’t entirely sure Spencer is even aware he’s being _saved_ right now.

  
  


He helps him sit up, trying to gently clear some of the dirt from his face as he speaks.

  
  


“Spence, baby, it’s me. You’re okay.”

  
  


“D - ‘erek?” Spencer's voice is still raw, each word dragging its way from his throat. “Hankel, you have t - you have to -”

  
  


“Hey, trust me, we’ve got every agent and officer available out there looking, alright? You just need to take a couple breaths,” Derek coaches. He’s soothing, despite the trauma induced on Spencer by the past forty-eight hours.

  
  


Spencer looks to Hotch, wordlessly questioning the decision. 

  
  


"Morgan's right. We have everyone out, they're going to find him. We just need to worry about getting you to an ambulance." Hotch says, his tone soothing in its certainty. 

  
  


“‘M okay,” Spencer mumbles defiantly.

  
  


"You need to be checked out, baby boy." Derek tells him, still gently wiping dirt off his face. "Please, will you do this for me? I'll come with you if you want me."

  
  


Hotch looks away, ignoring the blatant romantic nickname in favour of claiming ignorance if the time ever came, but he turns back to shoot a stern glare Spencer’s way when he makes a fuss about being checked over.

  
  


“It’s just my head, a - and my foot,” he explains. 

  
  


“Isn’t Morgan always telling you that your head is the team’s second best asset?” Emily asks, attempting to lighten the dark situation.

  
  


"Spencer, we both know a head injury needs to be looked at,” Derek says seriously. “I'll come with you. I'll make sure they don't do anything unnecessary,” he promises. “We just need to make sure there's no concussion."

  
  


"And I'm not letting you back in the field without having that foot looked at." Hotch tells him. "Morgan can come with you, but you do need to be checked out."

  
  


At that, Derek glances down to Spencer’s bare feet and sees the darkened purple skin surrounded by blood blisters.

"Come on, pretty boy. Let's get you all fixed up." Someone must have called for an ambulance because Derek can hear it coming now, as he picks Spencer up, carrying him in his arms. 

  
  


Spencer tucks his head against his shoulder, mumbling a useless apology which he only waves off. 

“Just because you can’t walk doesn’t mean I'm not inclined to carry you ‘round everywhere,” he jokes.

Spencer doesn't respond and Derek looks down at him with concern. 

  
  


"I know you're tired but you need to stay with me, okay?" They're close enough now that the medics are running over. Derek puts Spencer down gently by the ambulance and he sits on the end as the medics begin their exam. 

  
  


Spencer seems exhausted, and so very weak, but he manages to answer their questions, his eyes respond to their movements and is very aware. 

  
  


He knows the exact time, date, year and his own name, which isn’t surprising for Derek in the slightest, what does surprise him is how violently Spencer flinches when one of the medics bends down to take a look at his bruising and to wrap his foot up.

  
  


“Sorry," he apologises quickly. He ducks away from Derek’s concern, muttering something about the pain making him jumpy. “That’s all that hurts. My head and my foot,” he repeats. 

  
  


“I don’t need pain medication,” he insists when it’s offered and highly recommended.

  
  


“Sir, you received CPR, you’re likely going to be incredibly sore tomorrow,” one of the EMT’s points out.

  
  


"I don't want it." Spencer says simply but forcefully. "I just want to go home."

  
  


He looks back at Derek who's hovering worriedly just behind the EMT. 

  
  


"Please, will you take me home?"

  
  


His wet, pleading eyes help convince Derek to give him a supportive voice. His hands shake when he reaches one of them out like he’s begging for a lifeline.

  
  


"If he's alright, I don't think it's necessary to take him in." Derek tells the EMT who gives him another once over and shrugs in uncomfortable accordance.

  
  


"Listen, I would feel more comfortable if we took him into the hospital,” he admits, “that's what I would do if I was hurt like that. But really, if he doesn't want pain medication, I don't think there'll be much they'll do for him there anyway.”

  
  


"Thank you." Derek answers, helping Spencer up. 

  
  


The EMT waves him off, letting them go with a few more warnings about the signs of concussion. 

  
  


Neither the EMT nor Derek noticed the difference in the way Spencer held his left arm. 

  
  


Neither of them picked up on the small lump of the bottle which sat deep in Spencer's pocket. 

  
  


And the EMT would never find out about it. Neither would Derek. For a while, at least, if Spencer had anything to say about it. 


	2. "Stop, please" + Branding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 for co-writer, Dani, her Ao3 is: [Starsandsupernovae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandsupernovae)  
> And her gorgeous tumblr: [@reid-and-writing](https://reid-and-writing.tumblr.com/)

It’s been several months. His foot still stings occasionally if he stretches it in the wrong direction. He has a small scar at the base of it where the wood he was whipped with left a bloodied indentation. 

But, mostly, he’s healed. 

He’s twenty-two days clean from dilaudid, and it’s been thirty-six since he decided to wean himself off the drug. 

Withdrawals were hard - that still felt like an understatement to say the least - but he pushed through. He made it halfway through his first attempt, almost all the way with his second, and finally he made it to the stage where he wasn’t nauseated and pained from the debilitating cramps any longer. 

He hadn’t thrown out his supply. He knows he should. He has an irrational fear the symptoms will come back, and he doesn’t think he can do it a third time. 

He’s been back at work for only a single month, because the withdrawal and the excuse of therapy were so large. He hopes Hotch never finds out he lied about having a therapist outside of work. It was the only way to avoid the FBI mandated one. 

There was nothing a therapist could tell him that he didn’t already know from his studies in psychology. 

He knew arguing would be pointless, so he simply ran with the idea. Hotch didn’t question him, neither did the team. 

They haven’t been the most supportive but that’s his own fault for not telling the whole truth. He doesn’t tell them what happened when the cameras were off. He doesn’t tell them about the Dilaudid, about the scars he knows he has, or the marks that will never unblemished his skin and his mental fragility. 

They do not need to know. They do not need the guilt. 

And so, he comes and goes from work. Smiles when Derek kisses his cheek, waves when Penelope rushes past to her office, laughs when Emily makes a joke. He says his thanks when Hotch shoots him check-in looks, letting JJ ruffle his hair. Allows Gideon to coach his growing chess skills. 

“Briefing room ASAP,” Emily tells him as he walks in the door, only a step behind Derek who stayed the night at his apartment for the first time in weeks. Months. Since the ordeal. 

“Alright, pretty boy,” he says, clapping Spencer on the shoulder. “Hotch looks wound up,” he points out. 

He’s right. Hotch is pacing in the briefing room, on the phone to someone. 

When everyone enters, he lowers his voice from the yell it had been at before. “Just bring him down. We have the right of detainment and he’s one of the FBI’s most wanted as of months ago.”

Penelope hurried into the room, closing the door behind her. 

There’s a box of evidence on the round table and Spencer’s blood runs cold when he reads the name on the side of the box. 

“Hankel, T.”

Penelope grins widely, meeting his eyes and missing the frozen and shell-shocked look he must be hiding well enough on his face. 

“We got him,” she says happily. “Hankel. He’s been arrested and driven to our interrogation rooms in Quantico.”

“How?” Derek asks seriously. His tone is hard, and Spencer knows why. 

Derek harboured so much pent up rage for Hankel ever since he dug him up. Ever since he pushed his hair out of his face and resuscitated him in the graveyard. 

“He broke into another tech store, assumingly to start back up again, and was arrested before he got back to his truck.” Penelope doesn’t normally sound so excited when speaking about unsubs. Then again, Spencer had seen a new side to her after his first day back. 

She had cupped both of his cheeks in her warm hands that smelled of sage, mulberry and aloe vera, and said angrily “ _I’ll kill him_.”

“That’s great. Just what I needed,” Derek says darkly. 

Spencer twitches in his seat. 

“You alright?” Hotch asks. 

“Huh? Oh - me - yeah. Yes,” he chokes. “Just um, just surprised, is all.”

“It’s out of the blue,” he admits. “But we’ve got him, and he will be incarcerated with all the evidence there is against him.”

Spencer wouldn’t lie. The fact that Hankel had been out there this whole time had scared him. He had nightmares of finding the team massacred. Of Hankel finally making true to his statement, of killing Hotch. But knowing the team was put in charge of his questioning was far worse.

He didn’t need them knowing the finer details of his time in that dreadful cabin. If they knew all of that he’d never get a minute to himself for breathing, he’d be surrounded every minute of every day for check-ins and apologies and sympathy. He didn’t want any of it.

He wanted things to stay as they were.

Dilaudid, his scarring, the PTSD he likely had, he didn’t want to be weak. He couldn't be.

“Spence?” Derek asks softly. “Are you okay?”

Concern shines in his eyes and he watches Spencer carefully. 

He can already tell he’s going to hate this. 

“I’m fine,” he lies. His voice is croaky, and he passes it off easily, but Derek’s eyes linger on him for the rest of the briefing as Hotch talks them through the evidence they have and the evidence they need from the interviews. 

“What do we do about his split personalities?” Emily asks partway through.

“Separate interviews?” Gideon suggests. 

“That won’t work,” Spencer says. “You can’t force a personality switch; we’ll just have to wait around until it happens on its own.”

"Is there anything you noticed that can trigger the switches at all? If he's upset or feeling attacked?" JJ asks

“I don’t - no. No, I don’t think so.”

Another lie, though a small one. The only time he was able to pinpoint a switch was about half an hour following some form of torture from Raphael or Charles in which Tobias came back to himself out of guilt.

The worst part was the fact that Spencer was, at first, more terrified by Tobias than any of his counterparts because he knew the Dilaudid was a far worse torture than anything physically brutalising. It would last, potentially longer than the scars.

"Morgan, I want you to take point on the questioning." Hotch begins adding "If you feel like you can contain your emotions, I trust you to take the lead on this.”

“I can do it,” Derek says seriously. His heavy-set frown lightened up slightly to hide the aggression seething deep within his chest as he pictured Spencer’s muddied form in the cemetery. 

_God_ , Spencer thinks, _it could’ve been anyone else in the room_. 

Derek being the interrogator was possibly the worst outcome. Assuming Hankel told the truth, Derek would be exposed to the truth in person, and he got physically imposing in a violently terrifying fashion when Spencer was threatened by others. It’d happened so many times by this point in their career, Spencer knew what to expect. 

And Derek would know that Spencer had lied to him. He'd find out from Hankel of all people, that Spencer had kept his pain closeted away, that when he had claimed he was just sick, didn't want to spread it to Derek, that was a lie too. 

He'd discover the real reason Spencer didn't wand Derek to see his body anymore. He would learn of the detoxing, and the hidden scars, the PTSD he’d been struggling with in recent cases, his flashbacks, his cravings. 

Everything he saw as weak would be exposed to Derek and the entirety of the team, from the very source of his vulnerability.

“Reid?” Hotch asks. “Are you alright to sit this one out?”

No. He couldn't do that. If Derek was going to find out, he needed to at least be there. He knew Derek would be angry, furious. And he needed to know how much of that anger would be at Spencer himself, who had lied to him for so long. 

"You need me. He thinks I'm dead." Spencer answers Hotch, trying to keep his emotions from his voice. It sounds too flat, but no one seems to notice. 

"It'll throw him off. Get him talking."

“I’m not comfortable sending the two of you in there if you aren’t going to be able to keep a level head,” Hotch says honestly. 

"Hotch, I'm fine." Derek said at the same time Spencer answered 

"I'll be okay,” he promises deftly. “I’m _okay_.”

It wasn't only Derek he kept lying to. But he had to be okay enough to be present when the cat was inevitably let out of the proverbial bag. 

He could put aside the guilt for lying in order to push through one interrogation.

\----

Hankel is escorted to the third floor in handcuffs, and although the entire team is still stationed on their own floor, most of them chose to gather around the security feed in Penelope’s office.

“Which one is that?”

“Charles? I can’t tell.”

“God, look at him. He’s evil in its purest form.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“Spence? You look pale, you okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” he mumbles, looking away from the monitor screen. _That walk, it was Raphael_.

Derek touches his shoulder carefully, nodding towards the hall for a private conversation.

“Hey, talk to me,” he pleads. “You’re not yourself today.”

Spencer scrambles for an explanation, knowing to opt for a half-truth than a bold-faced lie. Derek knew him too well for that.

“I just - I know what he did was… wrong,” Derek scoffs at the understatement. “But Tobias, he - he’s still different in my mind. He never wanted to hurt me.”

“You have empathy for his real personality,” Derek states. It’s not phrased as a question, which Spencer thinks it should be.

“Yes,” he admits softly.

“From my view, you shouldn’t, but I understand why you do, alright?” Derek rests two hands on each shoulder, leaning forward to gently touch his lips to the edge of his temple. “You’re amazingly empathetic, Spence, but you need to know that he still committed a crime, and there’s no way around that.”

“I know,” Spencer whispers, wrapping his hands around Derek’s wrists. “I just have to get through this interrogation, and he’s gone, for good.”

"It's almost over." Derek agrees, reassuringly. "Look, I'll go in first. Lead on my own, and we'll see if we even need you to come in."

"I'm -" Spencer started to protest, telling Derek he's perfectly alright, another lie, so many lies, but Derek placed a hand on his own and cut him off gently.

"I know, baby. And you'll watch me, and if we need you, you'll come in." Derek says, looking him in the eye. 

He'd been doing that since that night, looking at Spencer with that piercing gaze, like if he stared long enough, he'd be able to see right through his defences and find his true feelings. Of course, he'd have to have known something was wrong. Spencer thinks he's done a good job with the rest of the team, but he didn't know how to explain to Derek why he no longer wanted to stay over, why he didn't want Derek to see all of him anymore. 

Spencer knew it was hurting him, the way he was pulling away. But he kept telling himself, none of it would hurt Derek more than the truth. 

So even while the truth begged to be spoken, he kept it inside where it banged against his chest and rattled his rib cage. And so, he just nodded. 

Derek glances around briefly before kissing him softly. 

"It's gonna be okay, Spence. Almost over." 

And Spencer doesn't know how to tell him that his pain may be just beginning. 

\----

A single pane of one-sided glass. That's all that stands between Spencer and the interrogation at hand. Derek, the love of his life and Hankel, the terror of his nightmares. His angel and demons. 

But of course, Hankel doesn't see it that way. From the looks of it, he's devolved even further, believing he isn't the only angel sent to earth. They were told he called the officers who apprehended him demons, told them he was too powerful for them. 

And indeed, when Derek entered the room he stood from his chair, with the straight posture and impassive expression Spencer recognizes as Raphael and says

"Abaddon. It's been a while. You look different." 

In the small observation room, eyes turned to Spencer for explanation. 

"Abaddon, the angel of death. A fallen angel. His name means ‘to destroy.’ He thinks that's who Derek is." Spencer doesn't look away from the glass as he speaks. 

"Raphael, I presume." Derek says, walking to stand across the table, placing his hands on the back of his chair. 

"I'm Supervisory Special Agent Morgan. Do you know why you're here?"

"You don't have to pretend." Raphael speaks confidently. "I know who you are. I've been sending you sinners. Have you received them all?"

"I haven't received anyone." Derek answers and Spencer can see the tension he's holding in his shoulders, his wideset stance. 

"Don't lie to me Abaddon. I just sent you a boy. Buried him in the ground for his sins. For his weakness."

“You kidnapped a sinner and buried them alive under the assumption that they would suffocate?” Derek asks.

“He was rotten,” Hankel mutters. “Needed to pay for what he’d done.”

“So, you enacted biblical punishment,” Derek presses. It’s clear to Spencer that in getting on Raphael’s level, he can twist an inadvertent confession from him, and it would all be done within under an hour.

“Biblical _punishments_ ,” Hankel corrects. “I tried to save him, to give him a chance but he wouldn’t admit to his sins, and he only committed more.”

“What does that mean? You tried to save him?”

  
  


Hankel sighs, tapping his fingers against the table harshly.

“I tried to draw his truth out of him through force.” Derek waits for expansion, none comes.

“You beat him?” He questions instead. Raphael waves a hand in confirmation.

Behind the glass, Spencer can feel Hotch’s prying eyes burning a hole into the back of his skull.

“I gave him God’s mark,” Hankel explains. “Just like I did for my boy.”

“This is Charles speaking now,” Spencer points out, not turning to see the disappointment in Hotch’s expression.

“God’s mark?” Derek asks. His shoulders are taught, and Spencer knows he’s only containing himself because he’s in an active interrogation. Spencer hates to think of how everything is going to crumble to pieces after this questioning.

“His cross, the mark of a holy man,” Charles explains. His demeanour has shifted, he sits less straight but just as imposing. His hands are clasped together in a fist. “My son corrupted him, we had to burn it away.”

It had hurt so badly, far worse than the beatings or the weighty knowledge of addiction holding him down. Spencer can still smell the scent of his own singed flesh in his nightmares.

He could no longer roll up his sleeves on cases in hot states, unless he wanted to look like Hankel’s envisionment of a perfect ‘holy man.’

“How was he corrupted and how did you solve his corruption?” Derek continues.

Spencer’s heart stops cold in his chest. He feels just as pinned down as he had at the bottom of that grave.

He didn’t think Hankel would lay out the Dilaudid, that was Tobias’ area, and let alone him expecting Derek to continue this line of questioning.

“He made him just as filthy, abusing the devil’s blood,” Hankel spits. His eyes blaze furiously and he’s practically shouting in the small room. “Just as weak as my boy. Pitiful. Turning to his needles when he’s paying for his own sins.”

“Stop, please.” He chokes out. Hotch steps forward, reaching a handout for his shoulder when he sees the hot build-up of tears threatening to fall from his eyes. “Make him stop,” he manages. “ _Please_.”

Hotch presses the intercom to speak over Charles’ yelling.

“Morgan,” he calls.

“Filthy, disgusting boys. Turning to an escape from their own shortcomings -”

“We’re done,” Hotch barks.

Derek stands, his chair scraping backward over Hankel’s shouts.

He leaves the room as quickly as he came, rounding the corner and pushing open the door of the viewing room.

“Spence,” he starts.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry - I never - I didn’t want you to ha -”

“Shh, stop,” he snaps, yanking him into his chest for an embrace. “Don’t, just - just let me,” Spencer relaxes, his tears finally spilling across Derek’s shoulders. “It’s okay, it’s _okay_ ,” he promises soothingly.

Hotch steps out of the room, giving them privacy as Spencer buries his face into Derek’s shoulder and holds in shaky exhales.

“I could never hate you, pretty boy. I love you so much, I just worry about you. A lot. You scared me,” Derek admits. “Are you still hurt?” He asks seriously, loosening his grip on the hug.

“No,” Spencer mumbles. “I just… I have scars,” he admits.

Derek opens his mouth to speak and Spencer can already see the words _why you didn’t tell me_ forming but he shuts it again, go Spencer's eternal gratitude, now was not the time.

Spencer wipes at the tears on his face with the sleeve of his cardigan as Derek steps back, still looking at him with concern. 

"Can I take you home, Spence?" He asks after a moment, already texting Hotch to tell him. 

Spencer just nods, trying not to let the tears resume. 

"Please do." It was time for the truth. 

\----

They didn't talk right away when they got home. Derek took him to the kitchen first, made him drink some water. Told him he drank too much coffee, and they broke a cookie with pink icing in half to share, a gift from Penelope. She always gave gifts and affection following bad cases, and Hankel’s case had quite possibly been the worst for all of them to endure.

The atmosphere in the kitchen was so normal, it let Spencer breathe. So, when at last, he had Derek follow him to the bedroom he almost felt okay as he slowly took off his cardigan, and his slightly trembling fingers began unbuttoning his shirt. 

"It's okay if you don't want to show me." Derek says, reaching out to still his hands for a moment. "You don't need to."

"I want to." And that was the truth, really. Spencer had wanted to since he had been saved, wanted to fall into Derek's arms, show him what he'd become and cry. But he hadn't, for Derek's own sake. And of course, because he was scared. But Derek knew now, there wasn’t much of a point in trying to hide things from his partner anymore. At least not if they wanted a healthy relationship.

He pulls his shirt off slowly like some sick, twisted strip tease as the harm gradually comes into view. 

Derek tenses as Spencer sits on the bed next to him, extending his arm so he could see it clearly. The old track marks, and, on top of them, the cross burned into his flesh. The mark of god to conceal his sin.

"It was Tobias." Spencer doesn't look at Derek when he speaks. "He knew the pain I was in; I think he was trying to help. Give me some relief. So, he injected me with Dilaudid."

There's a sharp intake of breath, like Derek is about to yell or burst into tears like Spencer had earlier, but he says nothing. So, Spencer continues. 

"Charles, he thought it was a sign of weakness. That it was a sin and he needed to burn it away. So, he took a metal brand, and he put it down, right next to me while he fed the fire. It was inches away, and I couldn't, I couldn't touch it. Just see it." Spencer's voice shakes and Derek takes his hand gently, grounding him in the present. But Spencer still doesn't look at him as he goes on. If he does, he thinks he won't be able to, he'll just cry against Derek's shoulder and he'll never stop. 

"When the - the fire was enough for him, he took the iron and he stuck it in. And we waited. It didn't get hot enough to satisfy him for minutes. And I was still, I was, I was on the ground then, I couldn't see him when he moved away from the fire. And then he pulled my arm, and I had to look, and I - and I saw it, Derek. And I felt my arm burning." 

He was crying now, silent tears falling from his eyes. When he at last turns to Derek, he sees them reflected. There’s an added glint in Derek’s eyes too. 

"It hurt. So much, I just wanted it to stop. I would have done anything to stop it." He says quietly. "And I knew what would help so I kept using."

He sees Derek's question before he can ask it. 

"Twenty-two days. This is the second time I tried to stop." 

“Is this why you didn’t want me staying the night anymore, because you thought I’d be angry?” He already looks pained, as though he was already blaming himself for giving Spencer the impression that he could ever blame him for this.

“No - not mad, I just… I didn’t want to be weak, y’know,” he shrugs, nudging the problematic belief away.

“Spence, listen,” Derek says. He places both hands on either one of Spencer’s cheeks, staring right into his eyes and mirroring his worry. “I would never, _ever_ be angry, and I wouldn’t think you were weak either.” He pushes a curl from a small section of Spencer’s fringe away, tracing his cheekbone with one thumb. “You’re so incredibly strong for getting through this, and even though you chose to do it on your own when you didn’t have to, the fact that you did this yourself is only a testament to your strength, okay?”

“Kay,” Spencer murmurs, closing his eyes against the warmth of Derek’s palms against his face.

“Good,” Derek responds. “And the team won’t think any of that either, nobody could ever think you were weak.”

“Thank you,” Spencer says quietly. “I um, I really needed to hear that.”

“You deserve to, every day if you need, baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr is [@ag-ib](https://ag-ib.tumblr.com/)
> 
> my heart goes <3<3<3 when anyone sends asks

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr is [@ag-ib](https://ag-ib.tumblr.com/)
> 
> my heart goes <3<3<3 when anyone sends asks


End file.
